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Almost Home: A Novel, by Pam Jenoff
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Ten years ago, American Jordan Weiss's idyllic life as a graduate student and coxswain at Cambridge was shattered when her boyfriend and fellow crew member, Jared Short, drowned in the River Cam the night before the biggest race of the year. Since that time, Jordan, a State Department intelligence officer, has traveled the world on dangerous assignments but has avoided returning to face her painful memories in England. When her terminally ill friend Sarah asks her to come to London, though, Jordan returns. Shortly after her arrival in London, she is approached by a former college classmate who makes the startling assertion that Jared's death was not an accident, he was murdered. Jordan learns that Jared's death was indeed not an accident, and that his research on World War II had uncovered a shameful secret. But powerful forces with everything to lose will stop at nothing to keep the past buried. Soon, Jordan finds herself in grave peril as she struggles to find the answers that lie treacherously close to home, the truth that threatens to change her life forever, and the love that makes it all worth fighting for.
- Sales Rank: #2021318 in Books
- Published on: 2009-02-03
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 1.60" h x 6.30" w x 9.10" l,
- Binding: Hardcover
- 384 pages
About the Author
Pam Jenoff is the internationally bestselling author of The Kommandant’s Girl, The Diplomat’s Wife, and Almost Home. She received her Bachelor’s Degree in International Affairs from George Washington University, her Master’s Degree in History from Cambridge University and her Juris Doctor Degree in Law from the University of Pennsylvania.
A former Special Assistant to the Secretary of the Army and former Foreign Service Officer with the State Department, she currently lives in Philadelphia, where she works as an attorney.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
I barrel through the double doors and across the lobby of the State Department, bypassing the metal detector and waving my plastic identification badge at the guard, who nods in recognition. My heels echo off the marble floor as I race down the corridor past the row of brightly colored flags, the tall glass windows revealing smokers huddled under umbrellas in the courtyard. A display of student artwork left over from Black History Month decorates the otherwise drab white walls.
I reach the elevators and press the up button. In an office across the hall, two jacketless, gray-haired men wearing identical brown ties lean over a cubicle divider discussing Cuba, their voices dispassionate and unhurried. A dying fluorescent lightbulb flickers angrily in the ceiling fixture above them. I turn back and press the button several more times, tapping my foot. The smell of scorched coffee, an empty pot left too long on the burner, hangs in the air. The door creaks open and I leap into the elevator, swiping my badge in front of the access scanner before pressing the button. Don't stop, I pray, leaning sideways against the faux wood paneling and watching the numbers light up as the elevator slowly rises.
A minute later, the door opens. I step out, then pause, momentarily forgetting my haste. August and imposing, the executive floor is worlds away from the bureaucratic lethargy below. Oil paintings of every secretary of state since Jefferson line the tastefully lit beige walls, staring down at me sternly, reminding me to stand straight. Large potted plants sit to either side of the elevator bank.
Steeling myself for the conversation I am about to have, I turn away from the closed double doors that lead to the Secretary's office, following the chronological progression of gold-framed portraits down the navy-carpeted hallway. At John Calhoun, I stop and adjust my collar before turning the knob of a familiar, broad oak door.
"Hello, Patty," I say, entering the office and passing through the reception area before the stout, auburn-haired secretary can try to stop me. I knock twice on an unmarked door at the far end of the room, then open it without waiting.
"I want London," I announce.
Behind the massive oak desk, Paul Van Antwerpen looks up from the cable he was reading and blinks once behind his glasses.
"Oh?" he replies, raising his eyebrows and running his hand through his thinning hair.
I hesitate. For the normally impassive Van Antwerpen, this is quite a reaction. He is surprised, I can tell, by the abruptness of my entrance as well as the nature of my request. The senior director of intelligence operations is a formal man; one schedules appointments to see him and does so sparingly.
"Yes," I croak at last.
He gestures with his head to the two chairs opposite his desk. "Sit down."
I perch on the chair closest to the door. The office is immaculate as always, the desk bare except for a few tidy stacks of documents, the walls adorned only by the obligatory photographs of the President and Secretary of State. On the matching credenza behind his desk sits a telephone with direct lines to the Secretary and the National Security Advisor. Encrypted text, providing real-timeupdates on intelligence situations worldwide, scrolls down a computer screen.
I smooth my skirt. "Sir, I know we had an agreement..."
"Have an agreement," he corrects. "One year."
"Yes." A year hadn't sounded that bad when the Director proposed it. Of course I was in the hospital at the time, two days out of Liberia, ten hours out of surgery, and so high on painkillers I scarcely remember his visit. Now, eight months later, a year seems like an eternity, indentured servitude. Not that working for the Director is exactly punishment; as his liaison to the National Security Council, I've spent my days shuttling between meetings at Foggy Bottom and the White House. I've gained a view of foreign policy at the highest levels of government, and I've seen things most people could not imagine in a lifetime. But I have to get out of here now.
And he's going to say no.
The Director, one of the only people who can still get away with smoking in the building, reaches for the humidor that sits on the far right corner of his desk. I fight the urge to grimace as he clips the end of a cigar and lights it.
"Don't get me wrong," he says at last, puffing a cloud of smoke away from me. "I didn't really think I would be able to keep you here a full year. I've had five calls about you in the last month alone. Karachi, Jakarta, Montenegro, Lagos, Bogota, all of the garden spots."
I smile inwardly. "Garden spots" is a facetious term diplomats used to describe the real hardship posts. Those are the most interesting assignments and until now, I always sought them out, proud to say I had never been stationed in a place where one could actually drink the tap water.
"And now you're asking me," he pauses, "for London...? " He sets the cigar in an empty glass ashtray behind one of the stacks, then pulls a file with my name typed across the top from his desk drawer. My stomach twitches. I didn'tknow he kept a dossier on me. "You've turned down London two, no, three times before. You don't even like changing planes there." He sets the file down, eyes me levelly. "So what gives?"
I avert my gaze, staring over Van Antwerpen's shoulder and out the window behind his desk. To the far left, I can just make out the Washington Monument in the distance, the pale stone obelisk muted against the gray sky. I swallow hard and shift in my seat. "It's personal."
I watch him hesitate, uncertain how to respond. Normally, such an explanation would be unacceptable. As intelligence officers, we are trained to separate our work and personal lives, almost to the point of forgoing the latter. But I've earned my stripes, spent nearly the past ten years putting my life on the line. He'll feel that he owes me this much. He has to feel that way; I am counting on it.
"If you'd prefer, I can take a leave of absence..." I begin, but the Director waves his hand.
"No, they'd kill me if I let you do that. You can have London. Martindale," he pronounces the name as though it hurts his throat, "will be glad to have you. She tried to steal you away from me months ago."
I smile, picturing Maureen Martindale, the vivacious, red-haired deputy chief of mission in London and Van Antwerpen's longtime rival. I haven't seen Mo in three years, not since we worked together in San Salvador. My next move would have been to call her, if the Director refused my request. He closes the file. "We're all set then. Just give me a few weeks to get the paperwork in order."
I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry, sir, that won't work. I need to get over there immediately. Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest." I know that I am pushing the envelope, risking his wrath by asking too much. "I'll buy my own plane ticket and use vacation time until the paperwork comes through. If it's a question of my projects here, I'll finish up remotely, help find my replacement..." The desperation in my voice grows.
Van Antwerpen is staring at me now, eyes skeptical. "What's wrong, Weiss?"
I hesitate. It is a question I no longer know how to answer. "Nothing, sir," I lie at last.
"If you say so." I can tell from his tone that he does not believe me, but I know he will not pry further. Paul Van Antwerpen is an extraordinarily distant man. In the years I have worked for him, I've never learned where he is from or whether he even has a family, and he affords his officers the same kind of privacy. His standoffish nature bothered me in the early years when I mistook it for disapproval. Now I just accept it as part of who he is, like the Coke-bottle glasses and the cigars. He stands up, extending his hand. "Good luck, Weiss. Whatever it is, I hope it works out."
So do I. "Thank you, sir."
Two hours later, I climb into the back of a battered navy blue taxi. "Arlington, please. Columbia Pike," I request, pulling the door closed behind me. The taxi driver grunts and veers the car away from the curb onto the rain-soaked street. Garbled Indian music plays over the radio. I slump back against the torn vinyl seat, exhausted. The reality of what I've done crashes down on me like a wave.
England.
The cab lurches to a sudden stop as the traffic light at Virginia Avenue turns from yellow to red, sending the small cardboard box of personal belongings I was balancing on my knees to the floor. I bend to pick up the contents. Not much to it: a "Solidarity" coffee mug given to me by Kasia, one of our Foreign Service nationals in Warsaw, as a going-away present; a few reports that I need to finish up in London that I cannot entrust to the diplomatic pouch; a wood-framedpicture of my parents. I lift the photograph from the box, studying it. They are standing by the old maple tree in the backyard of our home in Vermont with identical burgundy wool sweaters tossed over their shoulders, looking like they stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. I run my finger over the glass. My mother's hair, dark and curly like mine, is streaked with more gray than I remember. There won't be time to see them before I leave. I know, though, that they have come to accept my abrupt, unannounced departures, the weeks and sometimes months without communication that my work necessitates. They will understand, or pretend to anyway, I think, gratitude mixing with guilt. They deserve grandchildren, or at least a daughter who calls before moving out of the country.
As the taxi climbs the Roosevelt Bridge toward Arlington, I sit back and reach into my coat pocket for my cell phone. For a moment I consider following protocol for once and going through the State Department travel office for my plane ticket. Then, deciding against it, I dial zero. "British Airways," I request. The operator promptly transfers me to a prerecorded message of a woman's voice with an English accent asking me to hold for the next available representative, followed by a Muzak version of Chopin's Polonaise.
On hold, I lean sideways and press my forehead against the cool glass window, st...
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
"Almost Home"
By Mrs. Sybil Jones
The book is gripping but then Pam Jenoff's other 2 books she has written were the same and I find I can not put them down once I start to read them.
7 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
Could Be Better
By C. Smith
The imagery is stunning and the basic plot is gripping and this is why she earns an extra star above 2, but other than that I had a hard time believing this book. The main character Jordan is supposed to be a very good secret agent, but this identity is not very believable as some of the people in the book who do not have her training are better at what she does than she is! Other things that bothered me in the book were the way some minor plot lines were started and then abandoned halfway though. We are also left with a lot of unanswered questions about how the ending even came about. This makes it a little confusing at times to understand how things have happened. One such time we become confused at how major plot lines get twisted was the way her college boyfriend was buried. He was interred without his relatives even identifying his body or having anything to do with the funeral arrangements. (And *mini spoiler*! this is a major deal, and half of the plot rests on this!) It seemed like the author tried to put in a lot of Red Herrings to keep the reader guessing but never managed to tie them up in the end, and in some cased even failed do justice to major plot lines.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Annoying protagonist
By Nora Z
I won't bother to finish this one. I am only 88 pages into this book and already the protagonist annoys me to no end. She is supposedly a very highly sought after State Department official, her old boss is the "senior director of intelligence operations", which would be one of the top positions in the Department. Yet this young ( early 30's) female employee can just barge into his office, demand an immediate (that day) posting to London, and he gives it to her, because she's just that good at her job. We don't know what she does, other than the traumatic briefly described flashbacks to Liberia where somebody else gets killed. However, the big boss has had "five calls about you in the last month alone." So far I have no idea what she does that makes her so special. She gets a great flat in London, stocked already with groceries no less, and permission to carry her pistol. You'd think she must be a total bad-ass, but on the contrary, she's an emotional basket case, since by page 72 she has rushed out of two evening events (party at the Embassy, where she also smooches a total stranger due to being all caught up in her trauma, and then dinner with an old friend) because she is just so overwhelmed. Ridiculous.
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